LENA

Goodness gracious, but this has been a fine day and night! First I get all of my stolen property back, plus have the satisfaction of watching Mrs. Rodale squirm when faced with Officer Miller. Then Booker treats me to that wonderful lunch at the Sorrento Hotel. Not to mention I am beside-myself thrilled with the reception my rendition of It Had to Be You received from the club’s patrons. Henry is dead right—this is a song for the ages. One of which I simply cannot see myself ever growing tired.

Then there’s my amazingly thoughtful gift from Clara and Dot. I am so humbled by the affection my coworkers have shown me with their willingness to contribute to my lovely dressing room door star. It makes me feel like an honest to Betsy celebrity.

Now here I am, taking sneaky peeks around Booker’s bedroom while he rummages through the top shelf of his closet looking for his box of loose tie clips and pins, collar bars, button studs and cuff links. It’s all I can do to not laugh out loud.

Because who but Booker would have an entire container dedicated to orphaned bits of accessories? I don’t even own a real jewelry box, just the old cigar box I asked one of my old bosses to save for me when he finished his last cigar.

With pale grey walls and rich wood trim and flooring, Booker’s bedroom is every bit as beautiful as the rest of his house. And since it’s directly above the living room, it, too, has a fireplace. I can’t get over that—a fireplace in the bedroom! This has to be one of the ritziest, most luxurious things I have ever laid eyes on.

Speaking of luxurious, I really want to throw myself atop Booker’s bedspread and just flap my arms and legs like a kid making snow angels. My gosh the thing is swank, like something out of the picture shows. Its pattern, in a rich combination of bronze and silver, makes me think of some of the fancy Art Deco detailing I’ve seen on and inside of buildings around the state. And it looks so soft and silky-satiny, I can only imagine what it would feel like against bare skin.

“Hah! I knew the damn thing had to be in here somewhere.”

I have to hide my smile when Booker emerges from his closet. Foraging through the enclosed space has mussed him up some and he looks so darn cute.

Well, okay, Booker is a good deal more than cute. But he looks younger somehow than he did just ten minutes ago.

He grins at me, waving his free hand with a flick of his long, strong fingers in the direction of the two leather wingback chairs in front of the fireplace. “Grab a seat. I’ll build us a little fire and we can paw through this. See if we can find something to finish off your star.” He sets the box on the table between the chairs, then goes to squat in front of the fireplace.

After building a little tipi of kindling over wads of newspaper, he pulls out a few larger pieces of wood from the cubby built into the wall next to the fireplace and swiftly assembles them in a similar shape over the kindling. He strikes a match and shoves its flame into the bottom section. The paper catches fire.

I reach for the jewelry box Booker left on the table while he’s blowing the small flame into a larger one. But the man must have eyes in the back of his head. “Get your mitts off that,” he says. “You and me, baby, we’re going through that thing together.”

He joins me a moment later and turns on the table lamp. As flames lick the kindling, which in turn adds fuel to lap at the larger pieces of wood, he picks up the box and hands it to me. “Dive in.”

I remove the lid. “Oh, my, look at all of these! I hardly know where to start.” I toss the top back on the table between us, then turn back to the box.

“Take out all the bits that won’t work first and we’ll set those aside.” He flips the box top upside down. “You can put them in here.”

I remove the tie and collar bars, which are clearly the wrong shape and size and their removal starts whittling down the choices. “Why do you even have some of this stuff in here? They don’t look like they were ever part of a larger set.” I shoot him a sly smile. “Or parure.” I love saying that word. It makes me feel sort of worldly.

“I grew tired of them, but liked them well enough to think I might want to wear them again sometime in the future.” Booker shrugs. “Like you said, though, you put the things away, and it’s out of sight, out of mind. I forgot all about them until tonight.”

“Well, you have some really swell stuff here. You should pick some of it to use again.” Looking for a round piece, I cull out the rectangular and square cuff links unsuitable for the spot we need to fill and add them to the growing pile in the box lid. I glance over at Booker. “Okay, I think I’ve narrowed it down to pieces that might fit the space.”

He reaches across the table between us. “Give it here. I can tell you right now some pieces in there are still too large.” I give him the box and he removes several more items. Then he hands it back again. “Go to town, doll.”

I grin at him, then bend over the box to begin picking through the remaining shirt studs and tie pins. In the end, I hand Booker a stylish round onyx tie pin with a tiny silver starburst in the center. It just looks like Booker. I also pass over three little onyx and gold shirt studs. “If the pin’s too big, maybe some of the studs might fill in the space better.” I grimace. “I was excited to see the star on my door, but I should have brought it home so we could actually size things. I can be too impatient for my own good sometimes.”

“We can drive back and get it, if you want.”

I still. Yes, yes, yes! “Really?”

“You gonna be able to sleep for thinking about it all night?”

Oh, Lord, has he got my number! I shake my head.

“Grab your coat.”

I whoop and race downstairs ahead of him to do precisely that before he can change his mind.

The streets are deserted this hour of the morning so no more than a half an hour later, we’re back at Booker’s house again with my beautiful star and a tube of glue Booker grabbed from Roger’s work bench. We also have a Sunday copy of the Seattle Daily Times we picked up from Booker’s favorite seller who was busily stocking his news shed with freshly delivered stock.

Booker locks the front door behind us, then tosses the paper on the entry way table and hands me the glue. “Take the star into kitchen—it has the best lighting. I’ll go up and grab the jewelry.” He climbs the stairs two at a time.

He’s right about the lighting, and after covering a generous section of the kitchen table with a couple of layers of old newspapers I find in a box on the enclosed back porch, I lay down my door star and place the tube of glue next to it.

“Here we go.” Booker hands me the four pieces we selected and sets the box with the remaining jewelry on the far end of the table. “See if they fit.”

I pick up the tie pin and set it in the spot. “Oh.” My heart drops. “It’s...almost perfect.” It fits the space pretty well, except for one tiny spot. I didn’t even realize I had my heart set on this piece until a hot surge of disappointment washes over me. It doesn’t make sense, because I didn’t even notice the little gap until Booker pointed it out. But now I want this tie pin of his to fill it, and fill it perfectly.

When I, of all people, should know there is no such thing as perfection.

“Hey, it may still work.” Booker hands me one of the shirt studs. “Try fitting this in next to it.”

It slides in like it was made for the space and I squeal like a little girl. “There is such a thing as perfect. Oh, my gosh, you are brilliant, brilliant, brilliant!” I throw myself at him, rising on my toes to lay a thank you smooch on his lips.

At least, that was my intention. But it’s as if I kissed a live wire. I feel a jolt of 100 proof, make your hair smoke, pure heat rocket through me from where my lips press against Booker’s clear down to my—ahem—lady place. I jump back, my face on fire.

“I’m sorry! I got carried away. I didn’t mean to get fresh with—” I cut myself off, because, God, I sound like an idiot. What the heck? I can handle amorous drunks without blinking an eye. But put me within smooching distance of Booker Jameson, whose kisses I have relived in my dreams for eight long years, and all my street smarts, my confidence in myself as a woman, goes up in smoke.

“Oh, honey.” Gaze intent, Booker snakes an arm around my waist and jerks me flush against his hard, hot body. “You don’t have a damn thing to be sorry about,” he assures me.

His voice is a low and husky rasp abrading every nerve in my body. And I have a feeling I’m in trouble.

Big, big trouble.

He looks down at me with smoldering eyes. “In fact, you and me? Lena, sweetheart, you and I are just getting started.”

And, squatting slightly, the better to align himself with my not nearly as impressive height, he bends his head and rocks his mouth over mine.